Half a Soul
by Lydwina Marie
Summary: When half your soul is lost...
1. Hold Me Tight

**Chapter One**

Hold Me Tight

" _Where are you?_ "

The voice was fraught with panic, desperation even. Footsteps pounded, echoing down one hallway, then another, and still the cries continued. A dark figure, hooded and cloaked, passed like a shadow through the night, and as the endless moments crawled by, a new quality – one of terror – crept into the voice.

"Brother, please..." A fall of tears, insurmountable sorrow, lay behind the words, and for the first time he faltered.

"Where are you!"

Like a blatant mockery the words came back to him in a taunting echo, ringing through his ears, casting his grief back in his face.

 _Where are you..._

 _Where..._

Then there was another. Another call. And it did not come from his lips.

 _I am here._

He did not hesitate a second. With those three words his heart leaped, and all at once he was running, running towards the echoes that now murmured his brother's words in his ears.

He ran blindly, past darkened hallway after hallway, passing barred doors – he spared not a glance. His brother had answered – he was alive! But instead of the joy he should have felt, there was only fear. He called his brother's name again, hoping, praying, for an answer. There was none.

Then he skidded to a stop in the doorway of yet another room, the last in the hallway. He had passed it many times before, but never had he sensed the presence of the one he knew best in the world. Never once.

And that could mean only one thing.

His eyes fell at last on a dark figure, limp on the floor by the wall. It did not move. Not at all.

And before fear could temper his movements, he let out a cry and ran forwards, skidding to a stop beside his brother. Dark hair, framing a pale face, fell scattered on the ground, torn and knotted. A face like his. So much alike that one had been mistaken for the other, times without count.

His hand trembled as he placed two fingers against his brother's neck, afraid of what he would find – or not find. At first it seemed there was nothing, but in a moment of rational thought he stilled his hand and tried again. This time, he felt a weak fluttering; it was barely a pulse, but it was movement, and it was still there.

"Elladan," he whispered, stroking damp hair from his brother's brow. "Stay with me, I am right here – you cannot give up now."

Ever so slowly, as Elrohir moved to the laces of the tunic, Elladan's eyes fluttered weakly. Elrohir did not notice.

He was afraid to move Elladan without having any idea of the seriousness of his injuries, and after a moment's deliberation he pulled a slim dagger from his boot and neatly slit his brother's tunic up the side. He took a deep breath before gently parting the tunic and setting it to the side, but in no way was he prepared for what he saw.

A gaping hole was all that was left of Elladan's entire side – the skin had been torn violently away, and only now did Elrohir see the pool of blood in which his brother lay. His chest was bruised, the colour in stark contrast to the paleness of the rest of his body, and gently placing a hand over Elladan's chest, Elrohir felt the shattered ribs.

It was too much.

He knew Elladan could not stand so much pain – he wondered that his brother had been able to hold on so long at all. The only thing he was able to do was ease Elladan's passing in any way he could.

With this realisation, a tear trickled slowly, ever so slowly, down his cheek and fell to join the tears of anguish that lay on his brother's.

"El-ro-hir..."

The voice was raspy, but it was Elladan's. Elrohir looked up swiftly, seeing the conflict in his brother's dimming eyes.

"I am here, brother." He forced his voice to remain steady, though all he wanted was to sob, to weep on Elladan's shoulder, and have his brother hold him and assure him all would be well.

No, not this time.

With infinitely tender arms, he lifted his brother and settled him on his lap, shushing Elladan's involuntary cry. He planted a soft kiss on the cold forehead, holding his brother carefully, so very gently, fearing above all things to hurt Elladan further.

Half his soul – the half that had truly mattered – it was fading, slipping away, and he could not stop it. He felt the emptiness, he felt his fear, his pain, his grief, and he did not think he could stand more.

But then he felt Elladan, Elladan's dying presence, and the bond they had shared from birth was empty.

"No... please..."

His tears flowing freely, Elrohir cupped his brother's chin and tilted it upwards, gazing into the empty eyes. There was no light within those depths.

And Elladan breathed no more.


	2. Play Over

**Chapter Two**

Play Over

Sobs greeted Elrohir's ears as he raised his head – heartbroken sobs. Elladan blinked his eyes open and glanced over at the captivated audience before struggling to his feet. He let out a heavy sigh of relief before extending his hand to Elrohir and pulling his brother up beside him. It was over at last!

 _And remarkably well done, apparently,_ came Elrohir's wry voice through their bond. _Look at Naneth._

Elladan glanced up and met Celebrían's eyes. She was holding her emotions in check rather better than the other ellyth in the room, but her azure eyes shone with tears as she smiled, rising swiftly to her feet and running towards them.

With a grimace, Elrohir stepped back – he had never been an advocate of hugs – but Celebrian caught him along with Elladan and pulled them into her arms.

"Ionnath-nín..." Her voice trailed off as she hid her face on their shoulders. "That was... intense."

Elrohir's smile of relief matched Elladan's. He – and his brother – had been extremely nervous about acting such an emotionally charged scene, and he was only glad it was over forever. Erestor, being the (typical) tragical Noldorian specimen he was, had decreed that for the Midsummer's Solstice celebration the Elves would put on a play. But this was not the normal Elven reenactment of the Nirnaeth Arnodiad (which had been rather a stretch of creativity, in the twins' opinions at any rate). Indeed not. For instead, Erestor had tapped into his morbid streak and invented a tale of the Sack of Rivendell (Glorfindel had noticed the similarities between this tale and that of Gondolin, but he chose to be generous and say nothing), in which everyone died – and most tragically of all, the twins. Since Erestor enjoyed the sight of tears shed due to his intellectual genius, he had written Elladan's death in a way that could not fail to appeal to the ellyth. He had succeeded in his endeavours, undoubtedly – for as Elrohir arose from where he had expired from grief on his brother's chest, the room erupted into a collective – and shaky – sigh of relief.

Erestor smirked calculatingly. He already had an idea for the next year's representation of the death of the Two Trees.

This was going to be good.

The End

 **A/N:** Sorry for the short chapter, but there really was nothing else to be said. Lady Lindariel, does this mean that you cancel your story you were going to write because I killed Elladan? Please? I had always intended for this to be the ending, honestly!

Oh yes, please review. I would love it if you reviewed. :D


End file.
